


Holy Things

by qwanderer



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Other, Pining, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24273460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: Once, Crowley had caught Aziraphale singing along to a record of Handel’s Messiah (the last bit of the annunciation, peace on earth and all that), and hadn’t realized there were tears streaming down his cheeks until Aziraphale saw his face and hastily turned off the record.Aziraphale never played overtly religious music again, at least not in Crowley’s presence. And Crowley had a lot of feelings about that.He was a little grateful. The music had hurt, for a myriad of reasons. Mostly, though, Crowley hated that he’d taken that feeling away from Aziraphale. That sublime glow that had been on his face as he’d joined the chorus of humans in praising the Almighty.Aziraphale still enjoyed a lot of music, but Crowley couldn’t help but think it wasn’t quite the same.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & God (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 104





	Holy Things

**Author's Note:**

> I almost feel like apologizing because this is probably the most religious thing I’ve written since I left school and its sixteen years of required religion classes, but I think I won’t. I like what it’s turned out to be and I hope you will too, no matter your beliefs. Still, I thought it polite to give a warning.

Heaven was cold. Heaven had always seemed to be lacking, to Crowley. He’d loved the Almighty and he hated to Fall, because it hurt to be torn from Her favor. But he hadn’t missed the other angels as much as he sometimes thought he _should._

Then he slithered up to Earth to make some trouble, and he caught a glimpse of the angel on guard duty, and he thought, _Oh! That's what an angel is supposed to be._

_Maybe we were the problem, after all. Our questioning. Our squabbling. Maybe Heaven is better, now that we’re gone._

* * *

Aziraphale was a beautiful worrywart. Crowley learned this early on. First it was the missing sword, and second came Aziraphale’s concern about the water falling out of the sky and hitting Crowley. 

There were many, many other times.

Crowley had prodded two young humans into wrestling each other for the last chestnut of a batch. He watched happily as they gripped and growled and shoved each other down into the dirt.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale had said, wringing his hands. “What mischief are you getting up to now? Crowley, stop this! They’re hurting each other!”

“Shh!” Crowley had interrupted the angel. “Listen.”

The child who had been momentarily prevailing slipped and tumbled over, leaving the two of them in a hopelessly tangled mess of limbs, and nobody with the upper hand. And then they began laughing. Helpless sounds of genuine glee.

“Oh! They were playing!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “How delightful.”

The children called a tie, and they split the chestnut.

* * *

Crowley learned, in time, that Heaven was still cold and full of pompous fools who couldn’t recognize Aziraphale for the asset he was to their side. 

Aziraphale was the best they had, and every time Crowley saw him, the demon was reminded that there was genuine good in the universe, and not just the cold of Heaven and the mess of nastiness and discord that was his fellow demons and, so often worse, humanity.

So Crowley was careful not to tempt Aziraphale into anything that would threaten the holiness he embodied so well. Even though Crowley wanted… well. A lot of things. As much of the angel as he could get, really. But he was afraid of what that might do to Aziraphale.

The holiest angel he’d met.

Crowley could mock celestial harmonies all he liked. But there was one angel whose uncontested voice he could happily listen to for the rest of eternity. There was something that happened to music when Aziraphale enjoyed it. When he hummed along with it, bobbed his head in time with it. No matter what it was, the notes became imbued with life, and the air around him became brighter. 

Once, Crowley had caught Aziraphale singing along to a record of Handel’s Messiah (the last bit of the annunciation, peace on earth and all that), and hadn’t realized there were tears streaming down his cheeks until Aziraphale saw his face and hastily turned off the record.

Aziraphale never played overtly religious music again, at least not in Crowley’s presence. And Crowley had a lot of feelings about that.

He was a little grateful. The music had hurt, for a myriad of reasons. Mostly, though, Crowley hated that he’d taken that feeling away from Aziraphale. That sublime glow that had been on his face as he’d joined the chorus of humans in praising the Almighty.

Aziraphale still enjoyed a lot of music, but Crowley couldn’t help but think it wasn’t quite the same. 

* * *

Even after the end of the world, nothing about that had really changed. They were on their own side, but they were still… what they were. So Crowley kept the same careful distance he always had.

Aziraphale himself seemed much lighter, after the dust had settled and the world had determined to turn on. He walked with a bounce in his step and smiled freely at Crowley whenever they met, which was often. Crowley was all in favor of this development.

Even if it did make it more difficult to keep himself that step apart from the angel.

They took a lot of walks together when the weather permitted, content to simply enjoy that the world went on, human life continued, and they could be in the middle of it, together, without worrying about being seen in each other’s company.

When the leaves turned, Aziraphale took particular delight in seeking out the brightest colors and spending time simply sitting under the trees, to the point where he would occasionally play host to a drift of leaves that had fallen into his hair. Crowley’s fingers itched to pluck them out. 

On one particularly sunny afternoon, Aziraphale had found a bench under two of the largest, fullest linden trees in the whole of London, which had turned overnight to a brilliant golden yellow. He plopped down on the bench with an enormous grin and patted the seat beside him, and Crowley happily obliged. 

After some time spent in quiet appreciation, Aziraphale ventured, “This is lovely, isn’t it?”

Crowley hummed his agreement, eyes fixed on a leaf that had landed delicately balanced in the bright curls above Aziraphale’s left ear. 

“I do hope you enjoy our outings as much as I do,” the angel continued. “If there is anything else you would prefer to be doing, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes watched him, big and blue, earnest and curious. 

Crowley made another noncommittal noise. After a moment, he said, “Whatever you like is fine, it’s always fine.”

Aziraphale continued to watch him, the silence drawing out.

“Why?” Crowley asked eventually. “Is there something else _you’d_ like to be doing?”

Aziraphale took a breath and pursed his lips, and his fingers played absently with the chain of his pocket watch. This was usually something he did when he was nervous, or trying to work his way up to something, so it was Crowley’s turn to be patient and watch.

“I have been wondering whether you are ever going to make a move,” Aziraphale told him, voice probably not as firm as he’d intended. 

Crowley sighed, and told the truth. “No,” he answered, low and soft.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, looking away. “You don't… feel the same, then? I had thought…”

“Angel, you have to know that I love you,” Crowley said, breaking into Aziraphale’s increasingly distraught meandering words with a tumble of his own.

“You do?” Oh, those eyes. Right now they reflected the bright, clear blue of an autumn sky with perfect clarity.

“Always have,” Crowley answered.

“Well!” Aziraphale wiggled where he sat. “That's marvelous. And I love you. A very great deal.” He raised his eyebrows. “So what shall we do about it?”

“Nothing,” Crowley half-mumbled.

Aziraphale blinked for a moment. “You don't want… anything else?” he asked.

“What we have is…” Crowley wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence, because he couldn’t bring himself to lie and say it was just marvelous and all he ever wanted. “Well, anyway,” he interrupted himself, “it's not about what I want.”

“Whyever not?”

Crowley shrugged. “It's just…” he gestured vaguely into the air and made noises before settling on, “the nature of things. The way they are.”

Aziraphale pouted. He set his shoulders, and he said, “But if you love me, and I love you, then Crowley, why can't you be closer!” He reached as if to take Crowley’s hand where it rested between them on the bench.

Crowley's hands pulled away from Aziraphale's gentle fingers as if they burned.

“No, I can’t! No, you’re a holy thing and I can’t ruin that.”

Aziraphale’s face fell, but it went so softly. “Oh, my darling.” His voice was thick with emotion. “You won’t ruin me,” he said, ever so quiet and earnest. “You could never.”

Crowley had no idea how to respond to that. He couldn’t take that chance. Couldn’t give in. So he pressed his mouth shut, and didn’t look at the angel. 

“You don’t believe me,” Aziraphale said, almost a whisper. 

With the smallest possible motion, Crowley shook his head.

There was silence for a moment, filled with ghosts of all the times Aziraphale had ever tried to tell Crowley he was good, or nice, or kind. _Just a little bit a good person_ had gotten a pass perhaps because didn’t that mean, the rest of the way bad?

“What would let you believe?” Aziraphale asked, instead of insisting again.

“I don’t know,” Crowley answered honestly, with just a breath of a laugh. “I’ve been holding myself back from you for six thousand years. Probably the Almighty could appear before me in fire and majesty and tell me I’m allowed and I would still think it was a trick.”

Something in the quality of the light… changed, when he said that.

The yellow leaves of the trees above them shone brighter, and the sun slanting through them became more intense. Aziraphale’s hair lit up with it until his halo was clear as day.

 **“Holy things are for all my children,”** said a Voice he hadn’t heard in a long, long time.

Crowley made a noise, something of a laugh in the sound once again, but so much else in it too, desperation, hysteria, the threat of a sob.

“But holy water burns, consecrated ground burns,” he said, his mouth barely managing to shape the words properly but in his mind there was no doubt what they should be. “And that’s because I’m a demon. Because I Fell. Because I am unholy. I am corrupt. I am Wrong.”

 **“You turned out so well,”** the Voice said softly. **“You are exactly what I created you to be.”**

Crowley trembled.

“And what’s that?” he managed.

**“My first demon to walk the Earth. The one who gifts humanity with the freedom that comes with knowledge, over and over again.”**

“What?” he asked, shocked.

**“Look at me, Crowley.”**

Slowly, Crowley edged his gaze towards the light until he could see the edges of a Figure. 

**“I love you,”** She said.

“Then why?” he asked.

**“All my children must be separated from me sometimes. That is the nature of the Universe, and a law even I cannot change. It has nothing to do with you being a demon, except that it is the moment every person begins to become what they are, instead of what I Am.**

**“Being a demon does not make you bad.**

**“People are afraid of demons because they are afraid of themselves. Churches are spaces for humans to take a break from all the hard choices the world presents them with. You are an integral part of the workings of my world, worming your way into their souls and showing them the darkness that was already there.**

**“Holy ground takes many forms, and you are bound from only one of them. You are bound from buildings dedicated to the worship of a being who wears the face of my son, a singular one of my many children. The man you gifted with knowledge of all the kingdoms of the world. Because in those places, the two of you represent opposing forces. But that is only one way of many ways of representing those forces.**

**“Where a menorah is lit, that is holy. Where a prayer mat is laid down, that is holy.**

**“Temples of every kind, dedicated to the worship of any of thousands of gods with faces other than mine, they are holy.**

**“Places of study and meditation, dedicated to larger forces with no face at all, they are holy.**

**“Where a person takes a walk in the woods and breathes fresh air and feels at peace with nature, that is holy.**

**“When a humanist stops where they stand in the middle of a Star Trek convention because they are overcome by the power of stories or the power of community, that is holy.**

**“Holiness is whatever you need it to be. Holiness is the silence in which you can hear something greater than yourself.**

**“People need that sometimes. And people also need to sometimes be selfish, and annoyed, and caught up in the minutia of their own lives. But Crowley, my child, just because your job is to make a place for those things in some human lives, it doesn't mean that you, yourself, can never experience the other side of the coin. Or that you don't deserve it. You do.”**

Crowley took a shuddering breath, and let it out slowly. For the first time in his existence, he felt warm all the way through. 

**“Give it some thought,”** the Voice said. **“In the meantime, children, enjoy the day. I made it for you.”**

Then the park was still again, just an angel and a demon and the sound of birds, and the afternoon sun, bright on the leaves and grass and the bench and on Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale looked at him, a bit shell shocked, but face full of awe and hope. 

Hands shaking, Crowley reached forward to pluck that perfect golden leaf out of Aziraphale’s hair. He held the leaf for a moment, just looking at it, wondering what it all meant, if it was all true.

“My dearest?” Aziraphale ventured.

“Yeah?” Crowley asked.

“Now, I don’t want to rush you, but I could use a hand to hold right now.”

“Are you all right?” Crowley’s gaze sharpened on the angel.

“I may have been better,” Aziraphale admitted. “To tell you the truth, I have always found Her terrifying.” He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a fortifying breath. 

Crowley decided it was time to throw caution to the wind. “Oh, come here,” he said, holding out his arms.

Almost immediately, they were full of Aziraphale, soft and warm and comfortable-smelling. And it was… yeah. It was marvelous. 

They held each other close, and didn’t speak, just breathed, cheeks brushing, until the feeling grew familiar. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Aziraphale whispered, as if he didn’t want to break the charmed silence of the moment. 

“What?” Crowley murmured, lips brushing Aziraphale’s ear. 

“You are my holy thing.”

Crowley made a startled noise, and drew back an inch or two to look at Aziraphale’s face and see if he was serious. “Can’t be,” Crowley objected.

“You are,” Aziraphale insisted.

“How?”

Aziraphale drew him close again, so that he could speak in the barest whisper. “You are the thing that lets my mind shut up, so that I can hear the goodness all around me. You are the moment I can breathe without choking on all the lies Heaven has tried to grind into my soul. You are the talisman which I hold to remind me that Good is different from _good,_ and that the common, everyday form of good exists everywhere, if we look for it. You are my holy ground.”

“Hm,” Crowley offered, and nuzzled Aziraphale’s jaw, and considered going to sleep, right here, on this bench, in his angel’s arms.

It had been a long day, and he thought maybe he deserved a rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I picked linden trees because they go yellow in fall and there are a lot of them in the parks and public spaces of London. Then I looked up their symbolism. They're considered sacred in many cultures and associated with happy, stable marriages and conversations with the Virgin Mary. If husbands-to-be walk under a pair of them, it's good luck.


End file.
